Just You
by Mourir
Summary: YuBo WAVE!3:: Yuriy's a player, and Boris doesn't seem to care. In the end, they love each other the only way they can.


**Disclaimer:** Bakuten Shoot Beyblade belongs to Aoki Takao

**Notes: **YuBo!WAVE 3

_why__ can't I feel anything_

_from__ anyone other than you?_

_and__ all of this was all your fault_

**taking**** back ****sunday**

Yuriy Ivanov didn't want to win the next championships nor did he want Ivan to shut the fuck up (or, maybe, he _did _want to win the next world championships and he _did_ want Ivan to shut the fuck up but not as much as he wanted other things). His taste desired _other_ things – far _nicer_ things than sports and silence. This new lifestyle required even more energy, brought him more satisfaction, stole him away from the suffocating atmosphere of the Neo Borg residence. He was finally, in a strange and twisted and sick sort of way, _free._

Sticking his dick in pretty boys (_always_ boys for he could never quite get rid of the remnants of sexism lingering from his Biovolt upbringing) was something he did for pleasure. Boasting about his escapades was something he did for attention.

Yuriy liked sex as much as the next horny guy – he liked being good at it even better.

But when Boris didn't so much as spare a glance his way as he proudly described his latest fuck, Yuriy twitched and his unique talents no longer fucking _mattered_. His fingers clenched tightly as if desiring nothing more than strangling his teammate's neck and repeatedly smashing the other's head into the wall (or holding it still so he could shove his cock in).

And Boris still didn't seem to give much of a shit.

Yuriy _didn't like that_.

As compensation – an _apology gift_ for being so _rudely_ ignored – he felt that he had the god-fucking-given _right_ to roughly tear off Boris' clothes, shove him on the bed, and greedily take the reluctantly-returned, burning-in-anger kisses. His pale fingers slid over equally pale skin, fingertips teasing and seeking power, dominance. Boris appeared not to mind _too_ much as he arched up to Yuriy's touch and moaned into Yuriy's mouth.

The strange, faceless boys in motel beds were never as good. Never as good. Never as _damn_ good as Boris.

_Because, really, whom else did he have other than-_

_Really, now, they-_

_-his fault._

Fuck if Boris meant anything more to him than a hole – a _thing_. Boris wasn't that savior he'd been waiting for his entire life, wasn't that beautiful angel, wasn't even the god-damned rebel (_rogue)_ to take him away, away, away. Useless – just like the rest of them, just like the regulars, the not-soldiers.

Yuriy didn't _need that shit_. All that fairy-tale, rainbow, glittery fluff Kai Hiwatari got from _his_ stupid-ass team – the very idea induced vomit and disgust. _Friendship_ was the least of his desires, and he didn't need some hyperactive faggot (one that he ignored was much, much better than him in terms of Beyblading) beating him with the concept.

All he needed was a tight hole to fuck and maybe a little bit of attention and alcohol. His fingers clenched tightly as if to take hold of a companionship that was barely there (_pay the fuck attention, asshole, or I'll come over there and beat the ever-loving shit out of you)._

It would be really _fucking_ nice if Boris maybe – _MAYBE_ – showed his appreciation for Yuriy's lovely bedtime stories with an angry expression or jealous possessiveness. They were, after all, _together_ in that not-really, kind-of-sort-of way.

Though Yuriy should have known better, and he hated himself for being such an idealistic moron. Occasionally he forgot things – important things.

He knew Boris well enough to know some things, and he knew that what they had was the closest to _love_ and _affection _that he was going to get (wait, no, he didn't _want_ love and affect-).

He knew Boris.

He knew.

Knew.

Stupid fucking _heart_ and stupid fucking _emotions_ didn't know. They controlled him with malicious intent, chocking him and enticing sickness and weakening his muscles as if he were some kind of love sick female (_fuck)_. Simultaneously, as if to tease and annoy him endlessly, he felt an insatiable anger (perhaps desire, perhaps delusion), and his fists wished to punch the very face he'd been kissing.

In this way, they were destroying themselves.

xxx

This situation was entirely awkward, Yuriy decided, as he leaned over Boris' panting form, now flaccid and somewhat ashamed. He'd had something of an epiphany, and the aftermath of that wonderful thought left him feeling somewhat lost and depressed.

"If you're not going to fuck me," the other growled in frustration, gripping tightly at the thin sheets, "then at least be courteous and _roll over_ for me, _captain_."

"Why don't you care?" Yuriy asked in a harsh and authoritative tone.

Boris sat up, leaning on his elbows as he glared. His rough grip encircled Yuriy's throat, applying a threatening pressure that spoke more than his erection. "What the fuck. I'm not here to discuss philosophy with you. I'll be nice and give you a choice, captain. Fuck me, get fucked, or _get out_."

With an equally powerful stare bleeding in determination and a surprising hint of betrayal, Yuriy repeated his question, allowing Boris to, in response, flip their naked, sweaty bodies over. Icy blue eyes stared impassively at the other's sneering face.

"Poor, poor _captain_," Boris began, hand still wrapped around that vulnerable neck. He straddled Yuriy, grinding as a means to satisfy his own pleasure, perhaps as a way to arouse the redhead once again. "You're bitching because I don't give a shit about your whores? _Captain_, I don't give a shit who you sleep with. Hell, _I _fuck with other guys."

Somehow, Yuriy was not surprised. He did, however, almost forget why he initiated this stupid conversation in the first place with Boris moaning and _moving_ like that.

"I – _ha_ – don't give a shit. Get used to it."

They moved together, all angles and strength. Tongues abandoned questions in favor of cocks as hands searched for something more.

Climax came and went silently like some cheap prostitute – they never called each other's names. Instead, for that one moment only, Boris and Yuriy curled into each other, faces intimately close and fingertips so deliciously close to each other, as if reaching out in longing. For once.

Exhaustion lulled them into a dream-saturated lull shattered by Boris' quiet yet crisp whisper.

"As long as you're _here_, captain, I will never give a shit._"_

xxx

Obliterating, erasing.

This sort of thing was meant to happen to abominations such as themselves. Sick, sick fucks like them deserved that sort of shit, this eradication of identity, normality.

His current fuck – a slender boy with blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes – slept beside him as he sat against the headboard, staring at the blank television screen in the motel room like it held all the answer.

A mirthless chuckle slipped from his lips without notice.

"As long as I'm there with you, huh?" He took a brief sip from his quickly emptying beer bottle. "Boris, I didn't know you were such a _romantic_."

He sighed, disturbed at the distinct lack of solace and satisfaction in his evening.

He knew this was, without a doubt, the fault of Boris Kuznetsov.


End file.
